Exit Stage Left Page 8

  We enter, a young woman in a black vest and red bowtie handing us programs. Miller waves her off when she offers to show us our seats while I step inside the theater and look up at the lights. The red curtain. The stage.

  And my heart swells with joy. Magical, mystical, a place of dreams and make believe more real than the world outside. At least, to me. I’m suddenly a little girl again, Mom holding my hand, standing by a stage as she talks with other people who radiate the kind of charisma she does. And then I’m at school, face thick with makeup, dressed in a gown made by one of my classmates. To the small theater at home, the heat of the lights, the hum of the waiting audience.

  This. Whether on the stage side of the curtain or here in the seats, this is where I belong.

  Miller’s hand on my elbow breaks the spell, but only partially, enough to let him inside the coiling magic. I allow the dim sounds to take over, the scent of perfumes mingling with the heat of the bright bulbs overhead, absorbed by plush red chairs. Orderly rows, the seat cushions tucked up out of the way, marked with numbers and letters, leading in curved grace from the center aisle. The theater is already filling, forcing me to move forward as they gather behind me at the top of the aisle.

  Miller guides me down the sloping stairs close to the front as I look around like a child in a toy store. I spot Aleah as she turns to look, almost leaves her seat in her enthusiasm to wave at us. Piper and Ruben sit beside her, slapping at each other and laughing in some silly game.

  Aleah comes to the end of the aisle and hugs me, pulling me down beside her while Miller takes the outside seat. The bundle of roses rolls as my sandal hits them, but Miller rescues them before they can drop down under the row in front of me.

  Aleah hooks her arm through mine. “I’m so happy you’re here, Riley Skyley.”

  I can only grin at her, a kid having her best Christmas of all time.

  “I don’t come to Bianca’s shows anymore,” Aleah says. “But she’s a friend of Miller’s so…”

  I look at him with curiosity. He shrugs, face darkening. “Not really,” he says. “But I like to support other actors.”

  His thigh brushes against mine, though I doubt he notices. I’m acutely aware of his proximity, how easy it would be to drop my head on his shoulder, for his arm to go around mine. I catch a flicker of motion on the stage, look up.

  Ian is watching. Face blank, quiet. But it’s not the kind, sweet Ian I like to remember. This make-believe ghost is Ian at his worst. Thin, ragged, face shrunken, body wasted to the edge of life. The Ian I did my best to forget.

  Why my imagination is conjuring him now, this way… I turn my head, close my eyes. Open them again as the lights flicker.

  Miller meets my gaze, his steady, thoughtful. “Five minutes,” he says.

  Impulse drives me to speak. “Have you ever wondered, if things happened differently, where you’d be? What you’d be doing?” Ian’s image won’t leave me alone, following my gaze, standing beside Miller at the end of the aisle. All I can see of him in my mind’s eye is his thin hand, an IV dangling, the baggy pajama bottoms he died in.

  Miller leans closer, eyes locked on mine. “I wonder that all the time,” he says. “But we can’t go back, Riley. All we can do is the best with what we have, right now.” He pauses. “Regrets?”

  I shake my head, eyes stinging as Ian’s image finally fades and leaves me be. “No,” I say. “Just… sometimes I wonder, that’s all.”

  Miller squeezes my hand.

  Did I just lie to him? I turn my head, look up at the empty stage. I think of Ian and how he’s been such a huge part of my life. Clearly he still is, though I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t spent the last year ingraining into myself this need to see him everywhere. Do I regret any of it?

  No, not regret. But… for the first time, sitting here with Miller, with my new life spreading out in front of me, lit by the stage lights and fed by the murmurs of excitement and anticipation of the waiting audience, I think maybe it’s time to let Ian go.

  That I’m ready after all.

  The lights suddenly go out and I allow myself to just relax and enjoy the show. To not think about Ian or my guilty pleasure of keeping him with me or the fact Miller’s leg presses into mine.

  When the curtain goes up, I forget.

  I forget everything.

  The beautiful blonde from class crosses the stage and begins her opening line and I’m instantly captivated. Yes, she was rude to me once, but that is nothing compared to her acting.

  I hold my breath as she performs for the next two and a half hours, on the edge of my seat at times. She is brilliant and incredible and I’m in complete idolization mode by the time intermission rolls around.

  Miller leaves a few moments, returns with a bottle of water. I can barely speak, smiling at him in what I’m sure is a dazed way. Sit back and allow the others to talk around me, absorbing what I just witnessed. And when the curtain rises again, I’m ready, willing, open to the second act.

  Bianca draws me in completely. There might as well not be anyone else on stage. Everything about her performance tells me she gets it, Mom’s secret. And I can’t wait to actually meet her, introduce myself and talk to her about it.

  I’m on my feet when the curtain falls for the closing of the second act, clapping so hard my hands ache. The entire audience rises, a standing ovation for a wonderful performance. I’m grinning, cheeks on fire, but unable to stop as the cast emerges one at a time and takes their bows. I’m sure I’m part of the reason they do three curtain calls before the lights to the theater finally come up and I’m left, breathless and clutching my hands to my chest, so wound up I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again.

  Miller’s smile makes it all the more incredible. He bends and retrieves the flowers before stepping into the emptying aisle and gesturing for me to walk ahead of him.

  “Shall we meet the star?” His blue eyes sparkle in the lights.

  I can’t wait.

  ***

  Chapter Twelve

  I follow Miller to the lobby, gently slipping through the crowd gathered in the small space, chatting about the show. My hand is slippery and damp on the crumpled program I hold, and I have to shake out my fingers to keep them from cramping. I still feel the sting of my palms from all the clapping I did, but it’s worth it. So worth it when Miller guides me, with his fingers wound through my opposite ones, to a side door, painted dull black and barely noticeable. He doesn’t even look at the guy with a nametag who waves us on. I glance back over my shoulder, cheeks aching from my excited smile, and see Aleah has hooked arms with Piper on one side and Ruben on the other. The three of them sing a tune I don’t know, their voices suddenly loud as we pass through the door, and I wonder if they are making it up as they go along.

  I’m too wrapped up in the moment to pay close enough attention to find out. As soon as we step into the dark hallway on the other side, I’m in heaven. Backstage bustles with people, most in black clothing, the crew rushing about to complete their after-show tasks. I dodge a young man carrying an extension cord as thick as my wrist, losing my grip on Miller as I do. I and reach for him again at the exact moment he reaches back for me.

  He laughs over his shoulder.

  I look around as if I’ve never been backstage at a show before, because this one is nothing like the shows I’ve been part of. Yes, the activity is similar, the people, but these are all pros. The energy feels professional, not the giddy horsing around I’m used to.

  Miller heads for the dressing room at the far end of the narrow hall. I glance to my left, see through the wings and out onto the stage, the curtain now up as the crew resets for tomorrow night’s show. It’s a beautiful view from here, alluring, calling to me to step out past the hoisted curtain and onto the stage, even in the empty house, and say something.

  Anything.

  And then we’re past, slipping by a pair of actors chattering their way out, still in their stage makeup, smelling of sweat and peppermin
t, until the last door in the hall looms. There’s a star on it, a sliver of gold paint left behind as though it had been lovingly applied there ages ago but was left to fade. Not that it matters, because I know what it means and who is behind it.

  I’m suddenly nervous and fangirling. I can’t wait to finally be introduced to Bianca officially, to talk to her about her performance, to ask her if she knows how crazy talented she is.

  Miller reaches for the door handle just as it jerks open. My new idol stands on the other side, blonde hair down from the updo she wore in the last act, dressed in a thin robe hanging open to show her lace bra, her skin still heavy with makeup.

  “Bianca.” Miller leans in, kisses her cheek as she turns her face to him. Her eyes rove over the rest of us, settle on me. I feel my mouth open, about to blurt my adoration when Miller hands her the flowers. Her eyes fall to them, to his hand holding mine just as he releases me. I miss the warmth of his touch and look up to see Bianca accepting the bouquet I carefully created to celebrate tonight.

  She’s frowning as she lets them dangle from her hand like a burden, the plastic wrap unopened and I feel a tiny hurt she doesn’t appreciate them. Silly, she has no idea who wrapped them or, even more, couldn’t care less I put them together for her. I feel more for Miller who seems crestfallen she ignores them so easily.

  Aleah snaps her fingers, coming to my side. “You going to let us in?”

  Bianca’s eyes narrow, but she stands aside without a word. Miller moves past her with a murmur that sounds like an apology for Aleah as my glamorous friend sweeps by like a dusky queen examining her realm for the first time. Piper pauses, arm around his boyfriend, so Ruben can kiss Bianca’s cheek, though I notice Piper doesn’t follow suit. I see her eyes roll before she turns away. Watch her dump the carefully wrapped roses on the chair next to her makeup table and turn, arms crossing over her chest.

  I’m making excuses for her lack of welcome. She must be tired, probably just wants to have a shower and get out of here. But I hear someone pause behind me, her name spoken and, in that instant, I see Bianca light up as though none of us are in the room.

  When her admirer continues on without entering, Bianca's dull, irritated expression returns and my heart staggers. Still, I shouldn’t judge her. She’s brilliant.

  I open my mouth to tell her everything—how much I admire her, want to talk to her about the craft.

  Miller speaks up first. “Bianca Sullivan,” he says, “this is Riley James.”

  She raises one eyebrow at me. Gives me the once over as though we’ve never met, as though she didn’t kick me out of the improv circle the other night. And says, “So I hear you think you can act.”

  My whole world begins to crumble the moment I realize she isn’t who I saw on stage, not the person I hoped I could connect with, talk with. It all falls apart completely when she crushes my last hope she might actually like me, maybe. All my excitement, the thrill of what I just witnessed, shatters as my open heart closes over like a dying flower too long in the sun without water.

  Aleah turns on her with an instant scowl, Miller lurching forward with a muttered, “Bianca,” in a disapproving tone. But I’m still staring at the beautiful blonde who ruined the moment out of spite or whatever reason she’s chosen to be a bitch. And my admiration burns into ashes.

  “I just wanted to tell you how brilliant you were,” I say, voice hollow, dim in my ears. I’m amazed I’m able to speak at all. Turn on my heel and leave, feeling numb and broken, wanting nothing more than to escape backstage. Ian appears to me, his dying form making things that much worse. It’s suddenly claustrophobic for me, now. As though everyone is staring as Ian’s dying face is staring, like I don’t belong there. And I don’t, I really don’t.

  I just have to get out to the street and breathe.

  Hands grasp me, turn me around in the path of one of the crew who snaps at me, “Be careful.” Miller pulls me aside, but I’m dragging him, this time, toward the door. Out into the lobby. Past the glass doors and onto the open air.

  “Riley, I’m sorry.” Miller tugs me to a halt, hugs me suddenly, breath tickling my ear as my numbness fades at last. Leaving a nasty hurt behind, a little girl’s hurt that she doesn’t understand or deserve. “Bianca can be such a bitch sometimes.”

  I shrug it off, shrug him off, backing away, the heel of my sandal catching a crack in the sidewalk. He grabs me before I can fall, holds me upright as I steady my breathing.

  “It’s fine,” I say. While dying Ian weeps over Miller’s shoulder, fueling my pain and loss. And his. His imagined empathy, that of the instant destruction of my hope, my moment of need to connect with someone through my mother’s talent and memory.

  “It’s not.” He lets me go. “She’s just jealous. I should have known.”

  Jealous? I shake my head, sniff so my nose won’t run, so I won’t sob like a baby. “Of what?”

  Miller laughs softly. “She’s seen you act,” he says.

  So? “I don’t understand.” His words mean nothing to me, not while Ian cries and his face crumples in sadness and illness, telling me to run, get away, be safe from hurt. To escape back into my fantasies and forget any of this happened.

  “Riley,” Miller says, stepping closer, blocking my imaginary commune with my dead boyfriend, breaking the hold the hurt has over me. His hand settles gently on my elbow, eyes earnest. “She’s jealous of you.”

  I laugh in his face, practically choke on it. “You’re cracked.” Bianca has nothing to be jealous of.

  Miller’s smile is sweet, kind. “You have no idea,” he says. And turns away. Spins back. I can see the shift in him, he’s not himself anymore and I feel, despite the lingering pain, a thrill all the way to my toes even as I look around, self-conscious.

  What is he doing? Acting? Right here on the street?

  “You left me too soon, Delores,” he says. I know that name. It’s one of the scenes we played at the night before. And I know what comes next. But I’m flustered, aware of the people still emerging from the theater, watching now. Wondering what he’s up to as Miller falls to one knee. “You left me a broken man.”

  I can’t do this, just act. On cue. And yet, I can, I have. That’s what acting is all about. Still, this is different, surrounded by strangers, people who have just come from seeing Bianca perform.

  She’s a pro and I’m just…

  Just what? I look up, expecting Ian to be there, still sad.

  He’s gone. And so is my moment of loss in the face of what I love.

  My body takes over. I lean away from Miller, eyes downcast. And I pour myself into the part even as the outside world fades away.

  And comes back, crisp and clear and full of pain as Delores tells Horatio why she left him.

  The scene is painful and raw. Lost children, death and betrayal. I’m aching inside, Delores devouring me with her grief and need to strike out at her husband. And Miller takes it, feeds it back to me as Horatio.

  I love every second of it.

  When the scene ends, Miller holding me close, I break from the moment to the sound of applause. For me and for him. And I laugh. He lets me go with a kiss to my cheek, grips my hand. Turns me to face the circle of theater patrons and passers-by who smile and clap and throw money on the ground at our feet.

  As though I’m worthy.

  ***

  Chapter Thirteen

  We bow, together, once, twice. The third time I’m laughing and out of breath, waving like a queen, feeling the best I have since last night. Better even.

  This is the culmination of my dream, my desire, my need. Not only to act. But to act for others.

  Maybe it’s wrong to want their praise. But why act if not for the enjoyment of an audience?

  The crowd thins, ends their applause as Aleah and Piper rush to us, hugging us, Ruben hanging back. It’s not until I see him standing next to Bianca I realize she’s witnessed at least part of what we just did.

  And I can’t help but s
mile at her.

  “That,” Aleah gushes all over me, “was amazing, my sister.” She kisses me on the mouth before doing the same to Miller. “You two are stunning together.”

  Miller bows to her while Piper gathers up our busking proceeds, “They’ll be here all week,” he tells the fading crowd, and hands the cash to me with a pert grin.

  I lose sight of Bianca, not caring now, heart healed as Miller helps me stuff the money into my purse, refusing to accept a single bill. “You earned it,” he whispers in my ear. “Bravo, Riley.”

  The power of the performance has swept Bianca’s nasty attack away, left me feeling giddy and bouncy. I know I’m exhausted. I need sleep more than anything, but I’m already being led down the street while Aleah sings us on, Piper in counterpoint though Ruben is missing, back toward Miller’s loft.

  I’m not sure how much longer I can take the ups and downs of this life. But I’m willing to find out, now more than ever.

  I crash on the couch, heels set aside, letting my body rest while the party begins without me. It takes energy to call Aunt Vonda who laughs on the other end.

  “You sound like you’re falling asleep,” she says. “Have fun.”

  I laugh, but she’s already hanging up. I tuck my phone into my purse, smiling. I do need to have fun. But when I stand to go to the kitchen, to try to find some coffee to keep me going, I hear Miller say my name.

  Turn to find everyone holding up their glass to me.

  “To Riley,” he says. “For the most amazing street performance I’ve ever been part of.”

  Everyone cheers and I realize they were all there, at the show, in the audience. I’m blushing and curtsying, hurrying to the kitchen to avoid their whistles and calls for me to come back and do it again.

  I lean against the counter, facing the sink, unable to wipe the smile from my face. When I feel someone beside me, I look up, expecting Aleah, or Miller.

  It’s Bianca. I had no idea she was here. I open my mouth to again try to tell her she was fantastic, feeling guilty Miller toasted me when she’s clearly the star tonight.